So I bought a super cheap projector on Amazon, one of those with a brand name you’ve never heard of, but with somewhat reassuring reviews. If you just focus on the positive ones. I wasn’t expecting much and in fact I wasn’t even sure it would last the month. But the Warriors were in the playoffs, the game was on Friday night, and a few of us dads needed an excuse to hang out.
Of course, I’d never set one up before, connected it to the internet, or even knew if Warriors games were available online but hey only one way to find out: Invite a few friends over so you’re time boxed and pressured into making it happen. It took one of the dads 45 minutes to set things up and balance the projector image. I’m still not sure how to do it correctly to be honest. But my goodness the image was more than good enough, I somehow found an actually legitimate and legal stream, and the tiny bluetooth speakers were perfectly fine. Victory.
Sadly the game didn’t go our way, what the heck Curry, but we were too busy munching on snacks, eating the fried chicken and free corporate launch party food somebody stole brought, enjoying some ice cold ones, and just catching up. One of the guys’ wives packed custom snacks (the good kind, not the gas station kind). And well, losing means you actually have a lot of time to talk.
It was perfect. Everyone helped clean up afterward like it was some sacred ritual—fold the chairs, pack up the chips, take out the garbage. Like I sad, a great group of dads.
So then I brought the projector home, not exactly sure what to do with it. Kacie had been against buying it, giving me that classic “absolutely not” look, the one she reserves for impulse purchases and general views in my direction.
But I hatched a plan. Just pointed it at the ceiling in our bedroom, and turned on ‘Descendents of the Sun. She walked in frowning, took a look at the ceiling, then lay down, and just sighed. “Ahhhh.” We watched a couple of dramas like that, horizontal and happy. It felt very luxurious in a way such a cheap purchase shouldn’t make us feel.
And then… my daughter found it.
Now my room is no longer my room. It’s her personal YouTube Shorts theater. She’s a one-kid projector hog, lying flat on the bed, wrapped up like a burrito in her blanket, scrolling through thirty-second videos like they’re oxygen. I walk in and she doesn’t even blink. In fact I think her look towards me is a tad unwelcoming.
Um… daughter?
Can I have my room back?
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